


The Hand

by Fumm95



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Amputation, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Quinncident, SWTOR AU, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 01:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7782421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a tangible reminder of what he tried to do. There was no replacing a hand, just like there was no way to go back to before her broke her trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a gorgeous piece of art by semper-draca on tumblr, found [here](http://semper-draca.tumblr.com/post/148477769611/okay-hear-me-out-au-where-quinn-looses-his-hand).
> 
> Purposely written with no detailed descriptions or names for the SW.

The droids fell quickly. Almost too quickly.

She pivoted, throwing one against the wall even as she sliced through the legs of the other. It fell in a pile of scrap metal at her feet and she paused, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm the inferno that roared through her veins, demanding torment, suffering, enough to match the anguish in her heart.

Pain, red-hot and sharp, lanced through her side. She stumbled, body curling in on itself instinctively, as she turned. Quinn stood, near enough to touch, his blaster stowed but the flash of silver in his right hand caught her view. A vibroknife, its blade still dripping with blood. Her blood.

She moved without thinking; one second, he was staring at her with a mix of agony and horror, and the next, her arm was already slashing in its downward arc before she even realized she had swung, her cry of rage drowning out any noise of pain that might have escaped his lips.

His hand, still grasping the knife, fell to the floor.

It was over.

* * *

The pain meant he was still alive.

He was chanting the words to himself, he knew, as he led the way back to the Fury, desperately focusing on the thoughts rather than the fallen droids in the other room, the look of hurt and betrayal that crossed her face. The stump of his arm that would forever remind himself of his choices.

Part of him couldn't understand why he still lived. Very few Sith would allow such a transgression, even with punishment. On top of that, with the additional layers of emotion, of trust and understanding between them, it was almost impossible that she hadn’t killed him for his betrayal, that he was still alive.

Except he was.

He slowed as they reached the airlock, waited for her to catch up, wondering with each moment whether it would be his last, wondering whether her goal was to make him squirm, waiting to hear the hiss of her lightsaber stabbing him in the back as he had done to her.

Wondering whether, perhaps, he would rather she simply killed him than live with the terrible guilt of what he had done.

“Captain.” He nearly jumped when her voice cut through his thoughts. “Proceed to the ship. I will join you shortly.” Sharp eyes regarded him for a moment, an experience all the more painful for how dispassionate her usually expressive features were. “You likely ought to do something about that arm. I am unsure whether the medbay has the essentials for prosthetics, but far be it from me to speak on behalf of your expertise.”

Even after she finished speaking, she did not move, but instead simply regarded him with emotionless eyes until he shifted, bowing slightly. “Y-Yes, my lord.”

She had never quite seemed like the type who would kill him, likely thought it too cruel, too much a waste of life. Now, as he turned away from her, he wasn't sure whether it was a blessing or a curse.

* * *

The hand fit perfectly.

Of course it did. He would never accept anything else. After all, in spite of everything, he would do the best he could to support his lord, to be at the best of his ability. To make up for his transgression, even though it was unforgivable.

He began wearing gloves all the time again, at least on one hand. It was strange how, after well over a decade of being impeccably in uniform, a few years’ service with _her_ was enough for him to lose that habit, lose much of the formality that had been his buffer, his shield, in his interactions with the outside world. And he had paid for it, hadn't he? He may not have lost his life, but to lose her trust, lose her love… Was it really that different?

But nonetheless, he toiled, worked to achieve, or perhaps re-achieve, maximum efficiency in spite of a prosthetic that, no matter how hard he tried, how much he calibrated and fine-tuned, would never reach the same precision and speed as his human hand had. Even so, he would be damned if he let his own foolishness hurt her again, either through his own actions or his delayed reflexes.

And slowly, _slowly_ , he worked to regain her trust, in little steps. In proving his loyalty to her, in front of Vowrawn. In front of Baras. In front of any number of adversaries he would gladly face down for her.

In small signs. It was up to him to prove that, in spite of everything, his feelings had not changed, had never wavered, and he would gladly let down every barrier, dispose of every mask, if it meant she would understand.

In tiny gestures, in quiet good mornings and the offer of silent comfort when things got bad. In light-hearted short chats about whatever he found interesting and longer, more serious ones exploring his past and his thoughts, not justifying but explaining. In never pushing her farther than she was comfortable going.

And slowly, slowly, her expression began to change, from the terrifying dead look that so disturbed the rest of the crew, to a mix of anger and hurt that was both better and worse, and finally to acceptance and affection, all the warmer, all the more precious, for what they had been through.

She never could quite forget about the hand, he noticed. At first, it was a warning of what he had done, a direction for her scorn and anguish. But forgiveness would not change the past, and her gaze began to fill with regret, with sorrow, at her own actions, at her impetuity.

He didn't mind it so much; he deserved nothing more. It would always remain, a reminder of the past, and perhaps more importantly, as a sign of her love and forgiveness against all odds.


End file.
